With Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde
Thou slepyst to long, thou art begylde.
My darlyng dere, my daysy floure,
Let me, quod he, ly in your lap.
Ly styll, quod she, my paramoure,
Ly styll hardely, and take a nap.
Hys hed was hevy, such was his hap,
All drowsy, dremyng, dround in slepe,
That of hys love he toke no kepe.
With Hey, lullay, &c.
With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas,
She cheryshed hym both cheke and chyn,
That he wyst neuer where he was:
He had forgotten all dedely syn.
He wantyd wyt her love to wyn,
He trusted her payment, and lost all hys pray':
She left hym slepyng, and stale away,
The ryvers rowth 2, the waters wan;
She sparyd not to wete her fete ;
She wadyd over she found a man
That halsyd her hartely, and kyst her swete.
Thus after her cold she cought a hete.
My lafe, she sayd, rowtyth in hys bed:
I wys he hath a hevy hed,
What dremyst thou, drunchard, drowsy pate!
Thy lust and lykyng is from the gone:
Thou blynkerd blcwboll, thou wakyst to late;
Behold thou lyeste, luggard, alone!
Well may thou sygh, well may thou grone,
To dele wyth her so cowardly :
I wys, powle hachet, she bleryd thyne I7.
[From The Bowge of Courte1.]
Wyth that came Ryott, russhynge all at once,
A rusty gallande, to-ragged and to-rente:
And on the borde he whyrled a payre of bones;
Quater treye dews he clatered as he wente :
Now have at all, by Sainte Thomas of Kente!
And ever he threwe and kyst I wote nere what,
His here was growen thorowe oute his hat.
Thenne I behelde how he dysgysed was:
His hede was hevy for watchynge over nyghte,
His eyen blereed, his face shone lyke a glas,
His gowne so shorte that it ne cover myghte
His rumpe, he wente so all for somer lyghtc,
His hose was garded wyth a lyste of grene,
Yet al the knee they were broken I wene.
His cote was checked with patches red and blewe,
Of Kyrkeby Kendall was his shorte demye3,
And ay he sange, 'In fayth, decon thow crewe'
His elbowe bare, he ware his gere so nye":
His nose a droppynge, his lyppes were full drye,
And by his syde his whynarde and his pouche
The devyll myghte daunce therein for ony crowche.
TO MAYSTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.
[From The Garlande of Laurel.]
Mirry Margaret,
As mydsomer flowre;
Jentill as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towere:
1i.e. The Rewards of a Court. Bowge is properly allowance of meat and
1 trimmed.
5 waist-
8 without meeting
with any cross, i. e. piece of money so marked.
With solace and gladnes,
Moche mirthe and no madness,
All good and no badness,
So joyously,
So maydenly,
So womanly,
Her demenyng
In every thynge,
Far, far passynge
That I can endyght,
Or suffyce to wryghte,
Of mirry Margarete,
As mydsomer flowre,
Jentyll as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre:
As pacient and as styll,
And as full of good wy!!
As faire Isaphill;
Colyaunder,
Swete pomaunder,
Goode Cassaunder;
Stedfast of thought,
Wele made, wele wrought;
Far may be sought,
Erst that ye can fynde
So corteise, so kynde,
As mirry Margaret,
This mydsomer floure,
Jentyll as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre.
I Colyn Clout
As I go about
And wandryng as I walke
I heare the people talke ;
Men say for syluer and golds
Miters are bought and sold.
There shall no clergy appose
A myter nor a crosse
But a full purse.
A straw for Goddes curse!
What are they the worse?
For a sinoniake,
Is but a hermoniake 1,
And no more ye make
Of symony men say
But a childes play.
Over this, the forsayd raye
Report how the pope maye
A holy anker 2 call
Out of the stony wall,
And hym a bysshopp make
If he on him dare take
To kepe so hard a rule,
To ryde vpon a mule
Wyth golde all betrapped,
In purple and paule belapped.
Some hatted and some capped,
Rychely be wrapped,
God wot to theyt great paynes,
In rochettes of fine raynes3;
Whyte as morowes mylke,
Their tabertes of fine silke,
Their stirops of mixt golde begared*,
Their may no cost be spared.
A word unexplained by Dyce. Mr. Skeat suggests that harmoniac promoter of harmony; a man who makes things pleasant all round ' anchorite. 3 linen made at Rennes in Brittany.
Aboute churches and market:
The bysshop on his carpet
At home full soft doth syt,
This is a feareful fyt,
To heare the people iangle!
How warely they wrangle,
Alas why do ye not handle,
And them all mangle?
Full falsly on you they lye
And shamefully you ascry',
And say as untruly,
As the butterfly
A man might say in mocke
Ware2 the wethercocke
Of the steple of Poules,
And thus they hurt their soules
In sclaunderyng you for truth,
Alas it is great ruthe!
Some say ye sit in trones
Like prynces aquilonis 3,
And shryne your rotten bones
With pearles and precious stones,
But now the commons grones
And the people mones
For preestes and for lones
Lent and neuer payde,
But from day to day delaid,
The commune welth decayd.
Men say ye are tunge tayde,
And therof speake nothing
But dissimuling and glosing.
Wherfore men be supposing
That ye geue shrewd counsel
Against the commune wel,
By pollyng and pillage
In cities and village,
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